A Dime a Dance
by hollygofightly
Summary: Richard is sent to Chicago on a job for Al Capone, where he is introduced to a young taxi dancer with secrets of her own. As they get to know each other, they find that the Chicago gang world can be a cruel and surprising place. Takes place a month after the events of the S3 finale. Richard/OC and my first multi-chapter story. Rated M for sexual content. Please read/review!
1. Chapter 1

"This is the song I've been waiting for," she said as she took his hand and led him to the dance floor. He was a bundle of nerves, aware of the mocking eyes falling upon them, and felt a pang of pity for the poor, lovely girl he had somehow tricked into accompanying him to this farce. All around them, lovestruck couples waltzed in each other's arms, staring adoringly into each other's eyes. He twisted his fingers around his thumbs and wished he had never thought to come.

She knocked him from his nervous reverie by leaning in close and muttering, "I don't know what I'm doing." Suddenly he was back in Plover, waltzing around the barn with Emma, all smiles and graceful limbs. It was one of those memories he cherished, but tried desperately to push from his consciousness whenever it recurred. Now, surrounded by music and rhythm and with Julia standing ever so close, he fought back his reservations and forced himself to do what he knew he must.

"Put your hand. On my shoulder," he growled softly. She dutifully placed a small hand on his shoulder; his settled on her waist. He lifted her right hand and began counting the rhythm as he led her feet with his own. "One, two, three; one, two, three-don't look down," he warned, and she turned her beautiful face up and locked her sea-blue eyes with his.

Soon, the count was forgotten as he was consumed by the simple joy of the dance and of her smiling face gazing up at him in surprise. "You never told me you were good at this," she said.

"Thank you." He blushed. "This is the only step I know."

His joke made her laugh, a sound that threw his mind into a frenzy of complicated emotions, all generally focused around his utter shock that any of this was actually real. Before he knew it, he had lost himself completely in the whirl of their movements. He never would have guessed, from how quickly she caught on to his wordless instruction, that she was a novice. Then again, he never would have guessed from their first meeting- "Don't take any wooden nickels," she had said-that he could ever hope to be here with her, yet here she was, moving gracefully in his arms.

"What do we do for a finish?"

A vision of Emma twirling before him passed behind his eyes. "Put your arm up," he instructed. She hesitated. "Trust me," he urged. It was at once a simple request and a plea for the unforeseen road ahead.

She lifted her arm, and he twirled her in place before lowering her into a graceful dip. She clung to his shoulder, afraid to fall, but he would never have dropped her.

He hadn't realized that again all eyes were on him, but suddenly the room erupted in applause. Richard's cheek burned from embarrassment, and he tugged on Julia's hand to lead her from the dance floor.

"Hold on," she said, pulling him back to her. "Let's give them something to think about."

* * *

A sudden lurch of the train startled Richard from his tepid slumber. The moon was high in the sky, basking the surrounding fields in a milky, ghostly glow. He checked his watch, figuring they must be somewhere in Ohio, maybe crossing into Indiana depending on how long he had slept. Atlantic City suddenly seemed a world away from the peaceful idyll of the American plains. He had hesitated when Nucky had mentioned a job in Chicago, but now said a silent prayer, glad for the chance to escape for a while.

He hadn't left his vigil over the Sagorsky house willingly, but he supposed his absence was for the best. Besides, he had been standing guard nightly for nearly a month without incident. He realized, as the initial fearful afterglow of the Artemis Club massacre had dissipated into whispered rumors, that those foolish enough to cross him didn't know his name, and those who did wouldn't dare to try.

So he had boarded the train, on Nucky's orders, after taking one last look at the familiar house for God knew how long, and found himself careening towards the setting sun and a decidedly uncertain future.

* * *

In a shabby tenement hall on the South Side, Luciana Morici held her breath in a last-ditch effort to stifle her mounting anxiety.

She shouldn't have been surprised to see Capone waltz into the Garden of Eden that night, but nevertheless his appearance had taken her off guard. He had walked straight to her, ignoring the frivolous whispers of her excited fellow dancers, and held a dime to her. She had steeled herself, the consummate professional, and led him to the dancefloor.

Now that the music had died and she was free to return to the comfort of her tiny bed, she let the stress of the night's events overtake her, but only for a moment. She knew better than to cry over Capone's threats-he was moving up in the pecking order, but wasn't yet a king like Torrio-but he had alarmed her nonetheless. How had he known that she had begun working for O'Banion? No one she knew was aware of her activities on the North Side; up there she was Lucy Morris, feigning Irish origins that belied her dark features. Perhaps it had been naive of her to think it wouldn't have caught up with her, but taxi dancing alone couldn't possibly have settled her debts. How did Capone expect to be repaid on a dime a dance?

She sat up in bed, pulling her thick chestnut hair over her shoulder. As she weaved it into a loose braid, she thought about Nick, the great love of her life, and the great tragedy. Try as she might, she couldn't bring herself to curse his name. He deserved her scorn, true, but she loved him in spite of herself, and he needed her so. Her stomach lurched at the thought of him, alone and at the mercy of Capone's muscle, and remembered why she had taken such a risk in the first place.

She reached for the drawer of her nightstand and retrieved a bible from its depths. She lifted the cover and turned to the seventh book of the old testament—Judges—to reveal a hollowed section containing a bundle wrapped in brown paper. She pulled the bundle from the book and unwrapped it with care. Inside was a thick stack of bills, and she counted each in turn, then counted again. At least half would be sent to her family in Palermo; the rest would go to Capone. It still wouldn't be enough, but it was better than nothing.

She rewrapped the bundle with care and nestled it back into its hiding place, then rose from the bed to the dusty mirror in the corner. In the hazy darkness of just before dawn, she straightened her posture and studied her reflection in the mirror. Her nightgown hid a thin body that yearned be voluptuous, and would have been had she not spent years sacrificing sustenance in favor of shelter and safety. She shook her hair loose, letting the wavy ringlets cascade over her shoulders. She had never thought herself to be a great beauty: her limbs were slim and her stomach a tad bloated from malnourishment, but her breasts were far from modest and her face was pretty enough. Besides, Nick had always appreciated her.

With a sigh, she fell back onto the bed, Nick's face swimming into her mind. He was so handsome, with his sandy blonde hair and straight Roman nose. She always thought they would have made some beautiful children, and had thoroughly enjoyed the sport of trying.

Imagining his strong hands exploring her trembling body, she laid down again, her hand disappearing beneath her skirt.

* * *

The Four Deuces looked much as Richard remembered it, though many of the faces had changed over the course of the last few years. As he neared the bar, he glanced inconspicuously around the room for Odette, wondering with melancholy whether she had given him another thought since that night and hoping sincerely that she had.

"Frankenstein! Ain't you a sight for sore eyes?" Capone rose from his barstool to greet him. "Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?"

"No. Thank you."

"Barkeep! A whiskey for my friend here."

Richard took a seat at the familiar bar, ignoring the amber-filled glass placed before him. The squat Italian man tossed back his own drink and slammed the glass on the bar for a refill. "So," he said as he smacked his lips, "Did our mutual friend, Mr. Thompson, fill you in on why I am in need of your services here in my beautiful city?"

Richard shook his head.

"In that case, I'll get right to the point. A man named Niccolo Caro owes me a great deal of money."

"You need me. To kill him?"

Capone laughed. "Look at this guy!" he exclaimed to the men around him. "Relax, soldier. Put the gun back in your pants. I got a plan for ol' Nick. I may kill him eventually, but for he's more valuable alive."

"Then what do. You want from me?"

Capone smiled slyly and downed his drink before sliding from the stool. Richard took his cue and stood. "Listen, you got plans tonight?" Capone laughed. "What am I saying? Of course you don't got plans." He swung an arm around Richard's shoulder, an enviable feat given their difference in height. "Tell you what: meet me at the Garden of Eden at 10."

Richard eyed him suspiciously.

"Relax, pretty boy. I just wanna show you what Chicago is made of."

That's what Richard was afraid of.

* * *

The dancehall buzzed to life as the gentleman began streaming in. The girls were ready, clad in flapper finery and dancing shoes, and the walls were dotted with girls pouting and preening in hopes of snagging a customer. Luciana, as always, was one of the first to be offered a hand. As they foxtrotted across the floor, she kept her eye trained suspiciously on the entrance. Capone had warned her he'd be back and, though she doubted she would see him again so soon, she couldn't shake the anticipation building within her. She almost wanted him to show up tonight, to add credence to her fears.

Several dances later, she finally began to relax. How silly she had been to think he'd return so soon! She relaxed her shoulders and flashed her current partner a dazzling smile, which easily secured her another dance.

As the next jazzy number began, the doors to the club swung open and Capone sauntered in, his presence towering over the crowd in spite of his small stature and his smirk visible from across the room. He was flanked by his usual thugs, save for the stranger beside him. The man was turned towards the young gangster, muttering something gravely, throwing the right side of his face into profile. Luciana felt the fluttering of butterflies in her stomach; the stranger was disarmingly handsome, with his neat mustache and wide eyes sparkling behind thin wire glasses. As he and Capone walked toward her, she found, for the first time in ages, that Nick had been pushed from her mind.

And then he turned to face her, and she really couldn't help but stare.

The left half of his face was covered by what appeared to be some sort of mask, rendered after his face but without the alluring expressiveness of his actual features. Its hollow expression unnerved her more than the two thick scars that snaked out from the its edges, one above his eyebrow and another drifting across his cheek and up to his ear. They neared her spot on the dance floor, and she couldn't take her eyes off of him and the unsettling way in which one eye darted about the room, but the other stayed frozen in place.

She shook her head and looked determinedly at her partner, raising her arm defiantly to block the stranger from her line of sight. Too late; Capone was at her side, tapping her partner on the shoulder.

"I need to borrow this young lady."

"Fuck off," her partner responded. "I paid for a dance—"

The stranger grabbed his collar and yanked her partner away as if he were little more than a piece of lint on his jacket. "Come with me, dollface," Capone said with a smile. He turned to his thugs and whispered something, then led Luciana and the stranger off of the dance floor and through a side door into the dressing room.

A gaggle of chatting girls shrieked when they entered. "Get lost," Capone said. They obediently fluttered from the room.

He took a seat and gestured for his companions to do the same. Her heart pounding in her throat, Luciana lowered herself slowly into an empty chair. She watched from the corner of her eye as the stranger followed suit, folding his long limbs as if he were Baum's Tin Woodsman, in desperate need of oil.

With everyone seated, Capone cleared his throat. "Let me introduce you two. Ms. Morici, Mr. Harrow. Mr. Harrow, Ms. Morici."

A strange sort of clicking sound escaped Mr. Harrow's throat as he turned to her and said, "Nice. To meet you." It was more akin to a growl than anything else, a rough, monotone grumble. It was then that she noticed another thick scar slashed across his neck, yet another detail on which she must work hard not to focus. She forced her gaze towards his eye and offered a cautious hand.

"Good. Now that we're all acquainted, let's talk about why we're here, shall we? Ms. Morici here owes me a large sum of money."

Luciana's chest burned with resentment, and she longed to correct the little man before her—that it was Nick who owed him money, not her—but she knew better than to open her mouth, and her poker face remained.

Capone continued. "It's recently come to my attention that our little friend here has been working for that mick bastard, O'Banion, on the side. That don't sit well with me. I like to think I'm a fair man, but I can't help feeling like she's giving me the run-around."

"Get to. The point." Luciana was surprised and impressed; she had never heard the Prince of the South Side addressed with such impropriety.

"You're gonna be her babysitter. Stay with her night and day, make sure she stays away from the North Side. Keep her in line. You know the drill."

Apparently, she couldn't contain the look of horror that splashed across her face. Mr. Harrow quickly shifted his gaze to his frenetic hands.

Capone leaned forward and clapped them both on the shoulder. "Come on, it'll be fun! You two'll be lovebirds in no time." He guffawed then, his jaw swung wide in a gesture far more menacing than a laugh ought to have been. "Now," he said, standing, "I need a drink. You two take a moment to get to know each other."

He left them sitting there, dumbstruck and avoiding each other's eyes. Finally, Luciana rose to her feet. "Well," she said with a sigh, "we might as well go dance."

Imagine her surprise, as she led him unwillingly to the floor during a dreamy waltz, when he revealed himself to be an elegant dancer. "You've done this before," she whispered.

"You sound. Surprised."

She blushed, afraid that he had taken offence to her comment. "I just meant," she stammered, "you're a wonderful dancer. Has anyone told you that before?"

The right half of his face flushed; the effect was startlingly charming. She thought she saw a flicker of a smile tug the corner of his mouth, but he didn't say a word. He simply led her around the floor until she began to lose herself in the delight of dancing with a partner who knew how to show her off. He twirled her and dipped her and let her move as free as a feather dancing on the breeze. She had never felt so alive.

When the song ended, they dutifully applauded. Mr. Harrow turned to exit the floor. "Oh no you don't," she scolded, grabbing his hand and pulling him back to her. "You're supposed to look after me, remember?"

"I could. Get you a drink."

"I'd rather have another dance."

The next song was an upbeat number, and Mr. Harrow stood frozen before her. "I don't know. How to dance. To this."

Luciana smiled, amused by his hesitation. "It's all right, then. We can get a drink."

She led him to the bustling bar and gestured for two whiskeys. The bartender dutifully poured, and Luciana clinked Mr. Harrow's glass before tossing back its contents. When she glanced at him again, she noticed that he hadn't touched his, but chose not to press the issue.

"Do you. Come here often. Ms. Morici?"

Was that supposed to be flirtatious? Luciana giggled. "Call me Lucia. And, in answer to your question," she yelled as the music swelled, "I work here." A look of confusion crossed his face. "I get paid per dance. I'm a taxi dancer."

Still no sign comprehension. "They don't have taxi dancers where you come from? Where _do_ you come from, anyway? I feel like I would've seen you around if you lived here."

"I live in. Atlantic City."

"Never been, but I've heard it's lovely."

The music changed to another up-tempo romp. She looked up at him hopefully, but he looked at his hands.

A man approached with a ticket and offered Luciana his hand. She shrugged at Mr. Harrow, hoping he wouldn't take this as a slight. As she let the man lead her back to the dance floor, she glanced back at the sad, strange Mr. Harrow, leaning sheepishly against the bar. She still wasn't sure what to make of him; he was clearly Capone's muscle, but there was something about him that intrigued her. Though the shock of his mask had long since left her, she just couldn't take her eyes off of him.

* * *

Her job required her to stay at the dancehall well into the night. Afraid of the fast songs, Richard left her to accept patrons while he hung back at the bar, still clutching his full glass of whiskey and keeping his good eye trained on her as per Capone's instructions. A part of him was offended that such a skillful soldier as himself was being relegated to something akin to a nursemaid, but he couldn't pretend that it hadn't felt good to dance with a willing partner once again (even if she was just doing her job).

With the last patron ushered from the building, Luciana returned to him again. "So," she said, feigning energy though her breathlessness betrayed her, "my place or yours?"

Fearing the impropriety of retiring to a young girl's room, Richard directed the driver to his hotel. Nucky had been kind enough to set him up with decent accommodations—nothing too lavish, but a far cry from the cramped boarding house quarters that he currently called home. Richard would never have thought to seek refuge in a place as fancy as the Ritz, and was glad he hadn't needed to. Now, however, with a beautiful brunette on his arm, a part of him wished he had.

They snaked through the streets of the Windy City by night. Lucia cranked the window down and rested her chin on her arm on the doorframe. Stray curls of her hair wafted behind her, and Richard couldn't be sure, but somehow knew all the same, that her smile looked even lovelier basked in the glittering lights of the big city.

What was it about this girl? He remembered the way she had stared at him as he'd first approached her on the dance floor. Her eyes reflected at once horror and curiosity, two reactions to which he was more than accustomed, but there was something else deep within that he couldn't put his finger on. All he knew was how wonderful it had felt to be looked at that way.

The way Julia looked at him.

But he knew better than to fall for the first pretty face that didn't recoil in fear at the sight of him, didn't he? He thought of the brief list of loves in his life, or whatever love was to a harrowed soldier incapable of reciprocation. Jenny Hastings had amused him, but though her betrayal had stung he had not mourned the loss significantly. Odette was the girl of his fantasies, paid to give him the moon but not to keep it there. Angela Darmody had been a saint to him, an ally and confidant, but his friend's love for her had kept him from feeling an attraction. Emma had been the great love of his life before the accident, but to think of her now caused nothing but pain. It was Julia who had reignited the kindling within his heart, and he had been forced to smother the growing flames for the sake of her safety and Tommy's. He was not about to repeat the mistake of believing that love was an emotional that he could afford to entertain.

In front of the hotel, Richard helped his charge from the car and led her to his room, ignoring the stares of the few guests and attendants milling about at this ungodly hour as he focused instead on the training he had received from Julia at the American Legion dance—thanks to her, he would never again fail to offer his arm to a woman. The took the elevator to his floor, and his restless hands nearly fumbled the key at the door, but he quickly let them both in without incident. She immediately set to turning on every lamp in the room as he softly shut the door.

She hummed loudly, arms akimbo, and surveyed their surroundings. "Big bed," she said, shooting him a challenging look.

"You can. Have it." It would have been wonderful to sleep on such a large, pillowy mattress, but a gentleman must always put a lady's needs first.

"Nonsense," she said as she removed her coat. Richard hurried behind her to help. She then plucked each finger of her gloves in turn, first the right hand and then the left. "We'll share the bed. I couldn't very well have you sleeping on the floor."

"I. Don't mind." Did she really expect him to _sleep_ beside her?

"Well I do. As long as we're stuck together, we might as well make the best of it. Besides, if I know Al at all, he half did this just to get under our skins, and I for one won't let him. Help me with this?" She turned her back to him, and he set to work on the long strand of buttons that help up her dress while working hard to ignore the luminous skin beneath; he noticed a thin layer of goosebumps forming where his hand brushed her shoulder.

Richard moved to the closet to hang his coat and shirt as Lucia perched on the bed, removing her stockings. He could see her in the mirror, the curve of her calves entrancing him as she peeled the silk from them. He felt the stirring deep inside and forced himself to look away.

"So how long have you worked for Capone?" She was under the blanket now, brushing her hair absentmindedly with her fingers.

"I don't. Work for Capone."

"Really? He sure treats you like you do." He noticed the faintest trace of an accent—Italian, if her name were any indication. It was less in the way she pronounced words and more in the rhythm of how she spoke. An unconscious elegance, to be sure; the effect was enchanting.

"I work. For Nucky Thompson."

"Nucky Thompson?" She scrunched her face up in thought. "Sounds familiar. What'd he do, loan you out?" She stretched and sank further into the bed. "I bet you never expected to come all the way out here just for this."

Richard smiled. No, he hadn't expected this, but it was not unwelcome, either. He turned off all but the lamps flanking the bed before climbing in beside her, giving her a wide berth. It was like climbing into a cloud, but he couldn't let his guard down.

Neither spoke, nor did they look at each other. Richard hummed finally, reaching for his lamp. "Goodnight."

He turned away from her, his right cheek against the pillow, and the mask cut into his skin uncomfortably. Why hadn't she turned out her light? His heart rate began to rise, his mind a tempus of competing emotions-fear that she would run screaming if he dared remove his mask, longing for a woman's touch after so long, guilt that his presence here was an affront to his beloved Julia.

"I'm not a whore, you know."

The statement took him by surprise. He turned to lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. "I. Didn't—"

"I just don't want you to get any funny ideas. I don't know what Capone told you."

"He didn't. Tell me anything." He could feel her eyes on him, though he refused to look at her. Somehow, her stares didn't fill him with unease as stares were wont to do.

After what felt like hours but could only have been minutes, she turned away from him and switched off the lamp.

The stirring in his trousers returned. It would be a very long night.


	2. Chapter 2

Luciana awoke the next day feeling more rested and relaxed than she had in ages. Her normally aching muscles felt like butter beneath her skin, and she curled herself into the pillows for quite some time in an effort to prolong such comfort. Smiling broadly, she rolled over to speak to Mr. Harrow, but his half of the bed was vacant. She propped herself up on her arms while she glanced around the room, oddly concerned about his whereabouts. It couldn't have all been a lovely dream, since the bed was still so wonderfully real beneath her.

She pressed her mind to recall the previous night's events—truth be told, she had been a tad drunk—and remembered his meticulousness in removing what little clothing he had, and the way he had climbed stiffly into the bed beside her. She had laid there for quite some time, feigning sleep and listening instead to his labored breathing. Something about him intrigued her, but she knew it could be suicide to act on it (regardless of how handsome the visible side of his face may be).

Suddenly, the door swung open. Mr. Harrow walked in, clutching two paper cups and a small paper bag.

"Good morning," Luciana exclaimed cheerfully.

"Good. Morning," he grunted back. "I thought. You might like. Some breakfast."

"Oh yes, I'm famished!" She scooted from the bed as he set his bounty on the table. She studied him, his back to her, while he removed the lids from each cup and opened the bag to remove an assortment of pastries, which he began stacking neatly atop a napkin. It amused her, the care and precision that he seemed to bestow on every task. She pulled a robe over her shoulders and approached him.

"I didn't know. What to get."

"It's perfect. All of my favorite foods." She took a seat and selected a danish from the neat little stack. It was still warm, and steam wafted up from the coffee. She dug in, tearing the sweet, flaky flesh with her teeth and guzzling the coffee appreciatively. But he merely sat there before her, hands on his lap, his coffee untouched. "Aren't you gonna eat anything?" she managed to spit out through a full mouth.

"I'm. Okay."

She furrowed her brow, then swallowed her bite definitively. "Forgive me if this is too forward, but—" She paused, unsure how to phrase her question. "Is it difficult? Eating, with the mask in the way."

He looked down at his hands. "Yes." Then he added, "I wouldn't want to. Put you off. Your meal."

She rolled her eyes. "Clearly you don't know me well. I am always hungry."

He moved a tentative hand to his jacket and soon retrieved a straw, which he plunged into the coffee. He took a sip and almost immediately tossed his head back, then drew a hand to his mouth to wipe a teardrop of coffee from his cheek. Luciana looked at her plate, ashamed of the reckless abandon with which she had approached her meal—she had spent so much of her life unsure of where and when her next would come that she hadn't considered the ways in which it could have been worse. It could always, she reminded herself now, be worse.

"Please," he grunted, "Don't stop eating. Because of me."

His selflessness touched her, and she tore a small piece of her danish free and popped it into her mouth with a smile. "So, Mr. Harrow," she began.

"Call me. Richard."

"Richard, hm? I like that name. Okay, Richard. Does your boss have a plan for us today or are we to fend for ourselves until further notice?"

"I told you. Capone is. Not my boss."

"Well whatever he is, I can tell who's calling the shots. I just want to know how long until I can go home. I have a life, you know."

"I can. Take you there."

Her hand paused on the pastry, mid-tear. The thought of this man in her cramped apartment made her nervous, though she couldn't for the life of her figure out why. Thus far, he had given her no reason to fear him beyond the initial shock of the mask. Still, she realized that Capone had to have some reason to employ him; just because she hadn't seen his monstrous side didn't mean he was without one. Life with Nick had more than taught her that.

"Lucia?" His monotone growl shook her back to the present. She sipped her coffee and her cheery disposition returned.

"I suppose that would be all right. It's in a terrible state, though, so don't judge me too harshly when you see it."

"I have no reason. To judge anyone."

"Aren't you a beacon of nobility in a barbaric world?" She popped the last of her pastry into her mouth and rose from the table. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I should get dressed." She retrieved her dress and stockings, flung over a chair the night before, and flitted to the washroom. Humming to herself, she pulled the door near-shut, then tilted it so that she could see Richard's reflection in the mirror affixed to it.

She watched as he carefully lifted the earpieces of his glasses from his ears and peeled the mask from his cheek, setting it ever so gently face-up on the table before him. Luciana felt her pulse rise as he raised his head enough for her to see what had been hidden all the while: where his left eye should have been was instead a gaping hole; where the cheek should have been, a patch of sinewy scarlet; in place of lips, only bared teeth. She brought her hand to her mouth, less horrified than grief-stricken for this poor, sweet man. She wondered for a moment what awful fate had befallen him, but quickly reminded herself that the cause was irrelevant. Whatever his flaws may be, she decided, he had not deserved this.

She diverted her eyes when he lifted a section of pastry to his damaged mouth; it was not right to watch him this way. Instead, she focused hard on the task of pinning her hair up at the nape of her neck. Her hair was her favorite feature: while most of the other girls at the Garden of Eden had long since chopped theirs into fashionable bobs, she held onto her flowing locks with the fierce protectiveness of a lioness over her cubs. It was the one thing of hers in which she took any real pride. She wondered, her cheeks flushing scarlet at her superficiality, what gave Richard pride.

After reapplying her lipstick and deciding that she was as satisfied with her appearance today as she would ever be, she returned to the room proper. "You never did answer my question," she said, feigning playful frustration.

"Which question. Was that?"

"What will you do with me today?"

"What would. You like to do?"

"Well," she said, eyes turned dreamily to the ceiling in thought, "seeing as a certain slimy New Yorker has decided to put my life on hold and all, what's say we make the most of it? Come on." She grabbed her coat and made her way to the door. "I'll show you my favorite spot in all of Chicago."

* * *

He wasn't sure what he had expected—a speakeasy, maybe, or one of the big department stores they'd passed on route to their destination—but Richard certainly hadn't expected to finally stop at a massive, beautiful wood-and-glass building perched atop the long, wide pier that jutted out into the storm-grey waters of Lake Michigan. In the relatively short time he had lived in this city, he had never stepped foot onto the Municipal Pier, though Jimmy and the girls had often invited him to join them in their frivolous evenings at the waterfront theatre. True enough, he had left for Atlantic City before the pier had fully transformed into the glimmering center of entertainment that he found himself facing today, but either way he knew he would never had thought to come here himself had he not been urged along by another. Too many people, too many faces to look upon him in horror and disgust. It had been bad enough on the Atlantic City boardwalk, though Julia's presence had helped to distract the nosy onlookers (or at least had given them something to gawk at aside from his face alone). Here on the pier, he again felt something close to normal as Lucia slipped her hand around his arm and steered him towards the building's entrance.

Inside, a glittering structure beckoned them closer. An enormous circle of brightly-colored paint and lights, its midsection spun in a dizzying swirl, tossing its occupants up and down on the frozen beasts with the poles through their backs to which their riders clung, propelling all aboard ceaselessly forward. Richard had seen a carousel once before, at the foot of Sacre Coeur during one of his leaves from the war, but he had never been this close, much less ridden one. He stared up at it, his good eye wide, then whipped his glance toward Lucia as the sound of an excited giggle escaped her lips. She looked up at him impishly, her face awash in amusement.

"What are you waiting for?" she implored. "It isn't going to ride itself!"

Soon, they were spinning round and round, side-by-side on their candy-colored steeds. He sat to her left so that, if he stared straight ahead, she would only see the good half of his face, but as the ride continued he felt his self-consciousness slip away. He looked at her, that grin of impetuous youth illuminated by the hundreds or thousands of bulbs as they swished past, and felt a strange warmth build in his chest. As their horses pumped up and down and around again, he realized that all he really knew about this lovely, dark-haired girl was that she'd had the brass to cross Capone. He knew not why, and suddenly he didn't care. His protective instinct was taking hold of him once more, and he decided, in the shadow of the enormous canopy and with carnival pipes filling his ears, that whatever her offense he had no choice but to stay by her side—not as Capone's lackey, but as her white knight shielding her virtue from the cold, cruel world into which she had been thrust. It would be up to him, once more, to fight for the justice of the innocent.

The ride slowed and his head spun dizzily in the absence of centrifugal motion. Lucia slid from her mount and offered him a hand from his. "Aren't I. Supposed to help you?" he asked her as he jumped down.

"Yes," she replied with a sly smile, "but I've done this before."

* * *

She licked melting ice cream from a sugar cone clutched in her free hand, the other still looped around her escort's arm, as they meandered to the end of the pier, the gray expanse of Lake Michigan stretching out before them into an endless abyss. The sight reminding Luciana of the trip across the Atlantic, a young girl filled with wonder at the sight of the cold, limitless ocean. It had been a far cry from the crystalline waters of home, the sun-drenched shores of the Sicilian coast. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel the warm beads of sand falling away under her toes as the tide swam in and out over her tiny feet. It was a flicker of a memory, fading ever more with each passing day, but she cherished it all the same.

The air was warm with the coming of August, but a cool breeze wafted from the surface of the lake and sent a chill through her as they neared the pier's end. She squeezed Richard's arm absentmindedly, glad suddenly for the strong, politely reserved man beside her. She couldn't begin to think why, but somehow she implicitly knew that Capone's reach did not extend this far. Against her better judgment, she trusted him.

She spotted a vacant bench, right at the tip of the pier, and hurried to claim it. Richard lowered himself stiffly beside her, hands on his lap as they listened to the shouts and laughter of spectators behind them and the cries of gulls above. "Is this what Atlantic City is like?" she asked, biting into the newly exposed cone in her hand.

"Somewhat," he said, his growl growing more familiar to her with each carefully chosen word. "I think. You would like it."

"I suppose I would, then." She stared out at the water, her mind flooding with half-formed dreams and memories.

"Where. Would you like. To go?"

"Why Richard, we only just got here."

"No, I meant. If you could go anywhere. In the world."

She thought for a moment, unaware of the sticky stream of vanilla now dripping down her hand. "I suppose I would just like to be near the sea."

"You have. The lake."

She shook her head, smiling dreamily. "It isn't the same. I miss the sea I grew up with. It wasn't cold like the water here. It was warm; welcoming."

"I would like. That sort of sea."

"Yes," she smiled, "I think you would."

"Where. Did you grow up?"

"Palermo. Sicily. My father was a fisherman. We were very poor, but we always had plenty of fresh fish to eat. Have you ever tasted fresh fish? It's the most delicious thing in the world. My mother was a wonderful cook." She slipped into reminiscence, her mouth watering.

"Where. Are your parents. Now?"

"Back home. I send them money whenever I can, but—" Her tears caught in a knot in her throat. Speaking of her family always filled her with such sadness; she had to change the subject. "What about you? What do your mother and father think of their son, the gangster?"

"My parents. Are dead."

Her forced smile faltered. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

"It's. All right. I have a sister."

"Are you close?"

"We were. I haven't spoken. With her. In several years."

"I'm sure that's very hard for you."

It took him a moment to respond. "Yes," he said finally. "I loved her. Very much." Luciana looked up at him, the unscathed half of his face fraught with untold turmoil, and couldn't help but place her hand on his. After a moment, he turned his hand under hers and intertwined their fingers. Together, they sat in silence, surrounded by shouts of revelry, searching the hazy horizon for their long-lost signs of home.

* * *

Two days passed before Richard finally heard from Capone. The time had passed in a blur of activity and conversation: Lucia had taken him to all of her favorite haunts, all the places in town that still held magic for her, and they had spoken of their history and hopes all the while. She had told him of her childhood in Sicily, her large family with their quirks and quarrels, and he in turn had told tales of Plover that he hadn't let himself remember in ages. Her easygoing nature calmed his ever-present nerves, while her smile sent a spark through his spine and made him all the more thankful for this supposed job. In fact, he had begun to forget that it was a job at all, until Capone's sneering voice snapped him back to reality.

They were in the hotel, just before noon. Lucia was taking a long bath, singing a lovely melody that wafted from the bathroom and all around him like a blanket of tranquility amid the noise of downtown that charged up at them from the street below. The trill of the phone cut her tune like a knife, and Richard rushed to answer it in order to cease its angry scream. "Hello?" he answered, gruffly.

"Harrow," Capone admonished, "is that anyway to answer the phone?"

"I'm. Sorry."

"Just try to be more conscientious in the future, is all. Listen, ditch the girl for an hour and meet me at the Four Deuces. We gotta talk business."

"I thought. You said—"

"I know what I said, but I'm giving you permission. Lock her in your fancy hotel room, for all I care, just get down here. You got twenty minutes." The line cut out, leaving Richard seething. He had never liked Capone, but now he didn't trust him, either.

He told Lucia he had to run an errand; she had protested at first, but he reminded her that this hotel offered room service and left her daydreaming of delectable menu items as he walked out the door. He tried not to think about how delectable she herself had looked in the thin hotel robe, her hair a mess of curls bunched atop her head.

"Glad you could get away so fast," Capone called to him from the bar as he entered the familiar whorehouse. Scanning the room for Odette as he had before (again, she was absent), Richard took a seat. "Now," Capone continued, "you and the missus seem to be getting along. She's a real piece, ain't she?"

"She's. A nice girl."

"Oh-ho," Capone laughed, "don't go getting all googly-eyed on me. What, you think a doll like that is gonna fall for you?" He laughed in Richard's face, spraying flecks of spit on the mask.

Richard's eyes narrowed. "How much longer. Do you need. Me here?"

"Got a hot date back in Atlantic City?" Richard remained stone-faced. "Come on, it was a joke. Look, lemme level with you. Remember that guy I told you about, Niccolo Caro? Ms. Morici is his sweetheart. I told you he owes me money; it's up to her to pay the bill. Hey, you know me." He slapped his barrel of a chest with pride. "I'm a nice guy. Alls I want is to make the little girl a deal. She works for me, I'll consider it an investment. I'll let her boyfriend go so long as I can keep her."

"What do you want. From her?"

"Now, Mr. Harrow." Capone leaned in close, his smile menacing. "You think whores grow on trees?"

"She's not. A whore."

"Tell that to Dean O'Banion. He sure made a pretty penny off a her."

Richard stood, disgusted.

"Hey! Don't forget who's calling the shots here!" He had stood and hurried to block Richard's exit, pointing a threatening finger to Richard's chest though the hitman towered above him. "So long as you're here, you work for me. You get that girl to see the light, I give her back her boyfriend, and you're free to run along back to Nucky. That clear?"

Richard grunted, staring straight ahead.

Capone laughed and clapped his hands on Richard's arms. "See? Wasn't so bad, huh? I'll give you three more days. After that, I may not be so nice to either of them."

Richard pushed past him, heading for the exit.

"Hey, Harrow!" Capone cried. Richard paused, anger burning in his ears. "I may not be so nice to you, neither."

Richard swallowed hard and continued on his way.


	3. Chapter 3

_The golden field stretches far beyond his line of sight. He grips the handle of the old plow in both hands, the sweat beading on his back and brow. The birds whistle as they soar above him; there is music in the wind. A muffled cry draws his attention to the little farmhouse in the distance behind him—a beautiful, dark-haired girl cups her hands to her mouth, calling out to him, then waves her slender hand high in the air. He waves back to her, wipes his brow, and tries to push his plow, but it remains steadfast in the ground. With each push, he drives it further into the arid dirt, which whips up and around him and fills his aching lungs. His throat burns, each cough suffocating him further. Suddenly the ground beneath his feet begins to rumble, and he looks up as a massive wall of water thunders toward him. In a panic, he shields his eyes as the wave plunges across the field to reach him—_

Richard awoke in a cold sweat, his undershirt drenched and chest heaving beneath it. He swung his head around the dark hotel room, reorienting himself and glad to find the now-familiar hotel room swimming into view. Lucia slept soundly beside him, her face angelically peaceful. He had dreamt of her, before his apocalyptic hallucinations had forced him awake, and suddenly the urge to reach out to her was overwhelming. Just to touch her now might calm his frayed nerves.

He reached a tentative hand to her cheek, pausing mere inches from her—surely one touch would not wake her. He let his fingers fall gently on her face, tracing the apple of her cheek lovingly. No matter how much she had feared him at first sight, it was clear that she trusted him now. Capone's words burned in his head, and he hated the little man so much in that moment for daring to consider taking advantage of this lovely, innocent girl. He hadn't had the courage to tell Lucia of Capone's plans; she deserved to know, but more than that deserved to keep her illusions of the world for as long as possible before it betrayed her, as it betrays everyone in time. Besides, he still had two more days to formulate a plan.

Her eyes fluttered open suddenly, causing him to recoil. "I'm. Sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean. To wake you."

"It's all right," she replied sleepily, then widened her eyes at the sight of him. "My God, Richard! Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"It was. A bad dream. I'm fine now."

"You don't look fine." She propped herself up on one arm. "I have nightmares all the time. I can never go back to sleep afterwards. Want me to stay up with you?"

"No. You should. Sleep."

"But I'm wide awake now," she yawned.

He smiled, charmed as always by her cheerfulness. "If you. Insist."

"I do, as a matter of fact. Shall I turn on the light?"

"No." He had taken his mask off tonight and feared the look on her face when she finally caught a glimpse of his horrible scars. They lay side by side in bed, city lights illuminating their room ever so slightly through the thin curtains.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For what?"

"For dragging you into all of this. I never meant for things to get so...out of hand."

He thought briefly of Capone's warning, his heart sinking at the realization that she had no idea just how out of hand things had become. "What. Do you mean?"

"I don't know. Nick, Capone...everything."

"Do you love him?"

She laid back and thought for a moment. "I did. Maybe I still do; I'm not sure anymore. He can be very charming, and also very cruel."

"What happened. Between you?"

She sighed and pulled her hands behind her head. "Where do I begin? When I met Nick, I was just a girl, an immigrant girl at that. I had been in America for five years and it still didn't feel like home. My brother and I left New York for Chicago because he had heard there was work to be had out west, but then the consumption took him and, well..." She dropped her head, the pain of her loss newly restored. "Nick rescued me when I had nowhere else to turn. I probably would've starved, or worse, if he hadn't taken me in. I was 13, he was 20. He had a job, an apartment, and he was so handsome—what else could a young girl want?"

"Did you. Get married?"

She smiled, sorrowfully. "No, we did not get married. I doubt it would have changed much, but I learned my lesson the first time I brought it up." She shuddered, clearly suppressing a painful recollection. "I did get pregnant," she continued, "more than once, but I lost them all. Nick turned to the drink, and he started disappearing for days on end. I had no way of knowing whether I would ever see him again, and the bills kept piling up and I had no money to pay them. And then, one day, Capone shows up at our door. Nick was God knows where. Al tells me Nick owes him $1,000. More money than I've ever seen in my life! And he tells me he's gonna find Nick and teach him a lesson, which can only mean he's gonna hurt him. But where am I supposed to get $1,000? The most I've ever made at the Garden of Eden is $100, and I'd pulled a double shift that night."

"So what. Did you do?"

She rolled her head towards him, and he almost hoped she wouldn't tell him what he already knew, but she continued. "I went to a building on the North Side, where nobody knew me. I used a fake name and everything. I hated it so much, but I made so much money that I knew I could pay Capone off in no time. But, of course, he found out. Would you believe he was madder about me working on O'Banion's turf than he was about Nick's debt? He tells me he found Nick and he's holding him until I can pay up, but I can't go back up north and I can't very well do that kinda thing down here, can I? I could never show my face in the neighborhood again."

She paused, and Richard thought he could hear her choking back tears. "Is that," he started, "where you were. When you met me?"

"That's it."

"Have you heard. From Nick?"

"Not a word. For all I know, Capone killed him weeks ago." She sighed, the weight of the world on her slight shoulders. "But look at me, telling you my sad tale when I haven't asked for yours. So what is it?"

"What is. What?"

"Your sad tale."

Richard looked away, unsure of which one to regale her with and not wanting to burden her with any of them.

"Okay, forget the sad tale. I have enough of those for the both of us." She rolled towards him, propping her head on her arm again and narrowing her eyes at him flirtatiously. "Tell me this: have you ever been in love?"

He had been asked this once before, as he sat for Angela in the little beach house so long ago now. He had been unsure how to answer then, remembering with stunning clarity his emotionless response to his once-beloved sister after the war had taken from him everything he had once held dear. Now, however, he knew that the answer had changed. "Yes," he said finally.

"Did she have a name?"

"Julia."

"Julia. What a lovely name. Was she beautiful?"

"She is. The most beautiful thing. I've ever seen."

"And where is she now?"

Richard swallowed hard, his scarred throat aching with suppressed sadness. He squeezed his eye shut, mind propelled back to the night on the beach, Julia's sweat-glistened face swimming into his mind and the smell of the ocean in his nostrils.

Suddenly, he felt Lucia's fingers on his cheek. "Where did you go?" she whispered, her unflinching gaze bearing into him. For a moment, they merely laid there, gazes locked on one another and a lifetime of heartache exchange without a sound. She pulled his face to face hers, slowly, gently, her dark eyes sparkling in the half-light. He waited for her to speak, but she only licked her lips, her face fraught with ambivalence as she continued to trace the contours of his unscathed cheek with her fingertips. With the scarred half pressed against the pillow, he knew she could only see the part of him that had retained some trace of the handsomeness with which he had entered the war, and he realized with a swell of excitement that her face at this moment reflected none of the horror of their first meeting.

She leaned in, slowly, until their faces were mere inches from each other. "Richard," she whispered, "just for a moment, pretend that I'm Julia."

And then she kissed him, her full lips soft and inviting on his. He was torn between his loyalty to Julia and the immediacy of his desire, and desire quickly won out: suddenly he was kissing her back, wallowing in the fantasy that he was whole and human, that this was what he deserved.

As she pressed herself into him, he instinctively tugged on her nightgown; she only let go of him to help him pull it over her head. Her form now deliciously exposed, he let his hands explore the curves of her body. She gasped as his fingers brushed the sides of her breasts, and her back arched in acceptance of his touch. He moved his thumb to her nipple, rubbing back and forth, lightly at first, then rolling it between his fingers and enjoying immensely the soft moans that escaped her lips in response. Emboldened by her pleasure, he pushed himself further down in bed, his hands firmly on her waist, letting his tongue trace a road to each breast in turn, then down her stomach. He paused as he reached his destination, looking up at her for a signal; she nodded and let her legs fall to each side to accommodate his mouth. Her cries seemed to emanate from the spot where his tongue touched the velvety folds that made up the most sacred part of her, and soon he found a rhythm that clearly delighted her. As her passion mounted, he pushed a finger inside of her, then another, drawing the climax from her with an animal instinct that surprised him. Her whole body tensed, and she tightened around his fingers as she succomed to a wave of ecstacy that he was proud to have bestowed upon her.

Before he could lift his head, she was pulling him up towards her, her hands groping wildly for him. She struggled with his belt and the buttons of his fly, and he kicked his trousers off of him as if they were a threatening foe. She kissed him passionately as he pushed himself inside of her, the feel of her like heaven on his skin. His moans came out as grateful growls, and he pressed his lips to hers to silence them. With every thrust he thundered towards a release that engulfed his entire being, and her screams above him and the contraction of her muscles combined to propel him towards unconsciousness with the sheer force of their power over him. At the last possible moment, he flung his eye open to see her below him, back arched in a last surge of rapture, and he couldn't imagine being anywhere else in the world in that moment but here, with her, united in this unexpected dance.

He collapsed on top of her, chest heaving. "That was," she started, but then merely sighed. He supposed she too was now dumbstruck by intensity they had just experienced together. He too had felt it and, though he knew all too well that it would take more than a single night of passion for him to feel for her what he felt for Julia, he also knew that, in this moment, he had never felt better.

* * *

As the first shafts of morning sunlight ushered her awake, Luciana noticed the heavy arms wrapped tightly around her and nestled into them gratefully. His arms were strong, his dexterous fingers calloused but welcome on her skin all the same. It had been an incredible surprise, the surging pleasure she had felt last night—Nick had been a formidable lover, but he had never brought her such all-encompassing joy. She felt the stirring of desire building within her and spun around in his arms to face the source of last night's ecstasy.

"Wake up," she whispered between the kisses she planted softly across his undamaged cheek. "Wake up, _mi amore._" She found his lips and enveloped them in her own, nibbling slightly to demonstrate her intent. He hummed, ever so slightly, and the sound made her giggle.

She took him in her hands, glad to find his erection already beginning to grow, and stroked him until his hums turned to moans and he throbbed in her hands. Suddenly, he lifted her arms and began kissing her, without the unbridled passion of the night before but rather with a gentle sweetness that was still more than enough to send her reeling. She ached for him, and the feel of his fingers between her legs made her want him all the more. Still laying side by side, facing each other in a tangle of limbs, he entered her wet recesses, taking it slow this time, letting them both savor each thrust and bringing her closer to release with every movement. She swung herself on top of him, never loosening her hold, and began twisting her hips back and forth, watching his face contort with each gyration. She drew his hands from her waist to massage her breasts, and he squeezed each nipple as she pushed herself against him, letting the wave of climax overtake her as he bucked his hips below, clearly succumbing to a wave of pleasure all his own.

She collapsed onto his chest, panting, and was glad to feel his hand slip into hers. "Oh, Richard," she whispered, kissing the scar on his throat. He kissed her head protectively, and together they slipped back into unconsciousness.

* * *

"What have we done?" They were seated together in the bath, her back to his chest and her head laid back against his shoulder. They sat in silence for quite some time, Richard wringing warm, soapy water from a towel onto her breasts as he sorted through the jumble of conflicting emotions that threatened to overtake him. His mind reeled, searching for something to say, but there were so very many things he had to tell her and he knew not where to begin.

"Lucia," he started, but couldn't form his thoughts into words. He should tell her of Capone's plan, of his love for her, of his scheme to take her away from here, but more than anything he dreaded spoiling the magic of this moment.

"Take me away, Richard." She wrapped an arm up and around his head, dragging her fingers through his hair. "Take me away from Nick, from Capone, from Chicago."

"Where. Would we go?"

"Someplace where no one knows us. California?"

"You could be. A film star."

"You're crazy. I'm not beautiful enough to be a film star."

"You are. Too beautiful. To be a film star."

She turned around, staring into his eye and completely unfazed by the scars—he had left his mask beside the bed, it's coverage unnecessary in their newfound intimacy. Her eyes sparkled, swimming with tears. She kissed him tenderly, her fingertips lovingly tracing his ruined flesh as if it were healthy and whole. He knew he had to be honest with her, for both of their sakes.

"Lucia," he began. "I have. Something. To tell you."

* * *

She had heard his words, but hadn't believed them. A part of her was not entirely surprised to know that Capone had intended to turn her into his property all along, but the anger had burned within her all the same. She had climbed from the bath, splashing water across the floor, and now sat curled in a large chair by the window, her legs tucked up to her chest and the robe pulled tight around her. The streets below buzzed with activity, the bustling crowds unaware of her turmoil above. She wished she had never made the trek to the North Side, never met Nick, never moved to this godforsaken country.

More than anything, she wished she had met Richard years earlier, before they had both been so beaten down by the world. She could hear him puttering around the room, dressing slowly but not daring to disturb her. She wondered if he had always been so careful, so meticulous, or if that had been yet another byproduct of the war of which he refused to speak. Suddenly she realised just how little she truly knew about this man to whom she was prepared to give all of herself. She knew he had grown up on a farm in Wisconsin; that he had fought in the war as a sharpshooter; that he'd fallen in love in Atlantic City. In between each of these facts was a cloud of mystery, shadows where she longed for light.

She felt a strong hand on her shoulder and held it in place with her own. "I didn't mean. To upset you," he growled softly.

"You could never upset me." She rested her head on his hand.

"Do you still. Want me. To take you away?"

She closed her eyes, holding the tears at bay. "We'll have to stop at my place first."

Neither spoke on the car ride to her rundown neighborhood. He could see in her reflection in the window that she had lost her awestruck smile, and he squeezed her hand reassuringly as fantasies of revenge took hold.

Her tenement hall was much as he had expected it to be: a mess of wooden beams from which clotheslines crisscrossed high into the soot-darkened sky. She led him up an endless stream of stairs, past children playing and drunkards passed out between floors, and down a cramped hallway to what had to be her door. Key in hand, she paused and turned back towards him. "Still promise you won't judge me too harshly?" she asked meekly.

He stroked her soft cheek, and she lifted herself onto her tiptoes to kiss him—half on his lips, half on his mask. Then she pushed her key into the lock and opened the door.

Inside was a tiny living room with a sunken couch and a single tall lamp, a modest kitchen with a two-seat table, and a door to one side that could only have been to her bedroom. Richard registered the apartment's contents only peripherally, his eyes locked instead on a figure at the far end of the room. The man was tall, though not as tall as him, with sandy blond hair and, Richard noticed as the man turned toward them, a remarkably handsome, healthy, unmarred face.

"Lulu!" the man cried, his arms out in welcome.

Lucia dropped her keys to the floor but otherwise stayed frozen in place, her hand forming a vice-like grip on Richard's. "Nick," she choked out. "What in God's name are you doing here?"


	4. Chapter 4

Even with him standing there, arms outstretched before them, Luciana couldn't bring herself to believe that Nick was really there. Weeks of worry, of waking up in cold sweats and not knowing whether he would ever return to her, mutated what should have been ecstatic joy into an unbridled anger tamed only by the sheer shock of finding him here, alive and seemingly well.

Nick was clearly waiting for her to come running towards him, the scared little girl he'd always known, but she stood rooted to the spot, gripping Richard's hand as if she might otherwise go flying from the surface of the earth. There was something strange and off-putting about the sight of him, and it had little to do with her burgeoning intimacy with the masked man at her side.

"Lulu," Nick began, taking a step towards her, "aren't you gonna say hello?"

His handsome face was clean-shaven and free of scratches or bruises, and he had the healthy, relaxed glow of a man with few worries to haunt him. As she took note of this, a fire ignited within her, and she broke free of Richard's protective grasp to lunge toward him.

"Baby—" Nick began, but was stopped cold as she slapped him across the face.

"Where the hell have you been? I've been worried sick for weeks—_weeks, _Niccolo! _Mio dio, _I thought you were dead!"

"It's okay, baby! I'm home now! I'm safe!"

She cried out in anger, turning her back on him and moving to the grimy window. "Richard," she said quietly, rubbing her temple, "Nick and I need a moment alone."

She could hear the familiar click of his throat, a sign that he hadn't budged. She knew the men were sizing each other up, but this was neither the time nor the place for machismo. "Please, Richard."

He grunted, "I'll. Be in the hall."

She waited for the door to close before addressing Nick again, cool and calmly but without looking away from the window. "You need to tell me exactly what's been going on."

He came up behind her, wrapping his arms seductively around her, but she shrugged him off. "What?" he asked incredulously. "I've missed you so much."

"I'm waiting for an explanation."

"All right, all right." He moved to the couch and plopped down jovially, propping his feet on the rickety coffee table. "Will you at least sit down first?"

"I'd rather not."

He patted the cushion next to him with a flirtatious smile. Finally, she threw her arms up and relented, taking a seat beside him. He leaned back and threw an arm around the back of the couch, dangerously close to her shoulder, then pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit the paper tube slowly and took his time inhaling, savoring the nicotine.

"Well? This better be good."

"Look, Lulu." He exhaled a thin stream of smoke. "I did owe Capone money—a lot of it. He threatened to break my legs if I didn't pay up."

"So he told me."

"Right, well, what was I supposed to do? I was already working for him—for free, I might add—so he came to you. But I tried to stop him! I told him to leave you outta this."

"Whole lot of good that did me."

"I swear, baby! You know I'd never hurt you!" She shot him a skeptical look. "Well, not on purpose."

She refused to look at him, fuming at his reticence to paint himself in a bad light.

"He was hopping mad when he found out you was working for O'Banion."

"I wasn't working for O'Banion. I just picked a whorehouse across town—to bail you out, in case you've forgotten."

"I know, and I'm grateful, believe me. But you know who runs the North Side, Lulu!" He took another drag, blowing the smoke from his nostrils like an angry bull. "Hell, you should be thanking me: I talked him outta killing you for that!"

"Oh, thank you so much." Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Honest, Lu!" He scooted towards her, twisting a strand of hair around his finger and leaning in to kiss her neck. "Don't you believe me?"

"Get off of me." She pushed him away with contempt.

"What? You never could resist me before."

"Well," she said coldly, "people change."

"Nah, there's something different about you. Is it that creepy guy you came in with? Wait, are you—" His voice broke with stifled laughter. "Are you fucking that freak?"

"That is none of your concern."

"Like hell, it ain't my concern." He had become suddenly irate. "You're my girl, god dammit!"

"But not your wife. You made damn sure of that."

A look of understanding splashed across his face. "Wait a minute—I know who that guy is! Heard the boys talking about him at the Four Deuces. He's fucking crazy! Killed something like thirty guys at some whorehouse in Atlantic City!"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, yeah—Harrow! That's his name. Man, the boys were quakin' in their boots when we heard Capone was bringing him on. Holy shit, Lulu, that guy's a monster!"

"Nick, I'm serious—"

"I'd be scared, if I were you. There's only one thing Frankenstein out there is good for, and it ain't wining and dining you."

"That's it, I've heard enough." She tried to stand, but Nick pulled her down.

"Come on, baby. You can't stay mad at me forever. Don't you miss me?" He began caressing her over her dress, letting his hand work its way down to lift her skirt.

"Nick, stop—"

"_Shh_, it's all right. I know how you like it." Suddenly he was kissing her passionately, his tongue velvety and strong against hers as she felt his hand slip between her legs. In spite of her better judgment, she could feel herself succumbing to the pleasure of his touch.

"Nick—"

"If you just come with me to the Four Deuces," he breathed between kisses, "I'll make sure they take real good care of you. You can make a good living there, a girl pretty as you."

Her disgust at his words was enough to snap her back to reality, and she pushed and kicked him off of her as she sprang up from the couch. Trembling with anger and betrayal, she hurried to the door.

"You can't run from me forever, Lulu!"

"Watch me." She reached for the doorknob.

"I know things about you, Luciana. Things nobody else knows. Things you wouldn't want your little loverboy to know."

She stood at the door, frozen in fear. He didn't have to go into detail; she knew exactly to what he was referring, and she had spent half her life trying to scrub her memory of that day, of the sounds of struggle and the weight of the gun in her hand. She shook her head and turned the knob.

"Oh, and Lulu?" His tone made her pause. "Don't trust that freak out there. I'm telling you, you don't know what he's capable of."

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

* * *

Richard wanted to give Lucia her privacy, but something about the sight of her boyfriend had proven disconcerted. The man's presence had thrown Richard's understanding of the situation into chaos; he knew from experience that a threatened man never looked so carefree, and he had more than a lingering suspicion that Nick hadn't meant for Lucia to find him there.

A tugging on his coat ushered him from his well of paranoia. It was a little girl, no more than Tommy's age, with a heart-shaped face framed by dark ringlets. Her clothes were tattered, and she clutched a dirty rag doll in one arm.

"Can I. Help you?" he said, hoping not to frighten her.

"Why are you wearing a mask?" Her voice was high and clear, full of curiosity and without a trace of fear.

"To scare. The monsters away."

"I don't think you're scary."

Richard blushed. "Thank you."

"Are you a soldier?"

He nodded. "I was."

"My daddy was a soldier. He left his leg in France."

"I'm sure. He's very brave."

"Wanna meet my dolly?" She held her doll up to him for inspection. "Her name is Emma."

A pang of guilt pierced his heart. "That's. A nice name."

"Emma's a princess, but she got kidnapped from her castle so I'm keeping her safe until her prince can come get her."

"You're a good friend. To keep her safe." He glanced at Lucia's door, concerned for the girl within.

"Why you looking at that door?"

"My friend. Is in there."

"That's a bad place."

"Why. Do you say that?"

"I hear bad things happening in there. Sometimes I hear loud bangs and then I hear a lady crying."

"Do you. Know the lady?"

The little girl shook her head. "I only see men go in there. Lots of men yesterday. They were real noisy. It woke up my baby brother."

"Did it. Sound like a fight?"

She shook her head. "They were laughing and saying bad words. Mama told me not to listen to them, but I did anyway." She giggled, amused by her own brashness.

"You should listen. To your mother."

"I know." She pulled the doll to her chest, embarrassed.

Suddenly, Lucia's door flew open and she emerged, her face darkened with the weight of her troubles. "We're leaving," she said definitively, hurrying towards the stairwell.

Richard dutifully followed, but paused and looked back at the little girl. "It's okay," he said softly. "I'll keep the monsters away."

"Thank you," she whispered, waving a tiny, dimpled hand as he made his way down the stairs in Lucia's wake.

* * *

She needed time to clear her head. A thick layer of clouds had begun to creep across the sky, but the air was balmy. She set off from the tenement hall, Richard keeping just a few paces behind, without a care as to where she was headed. Walking would calm her, she hoped.

Nick's words rang in her head, the part of her that longed to believe him at war with the part of her that knew he was holding something back. It made her crazy to think that he still refused to accept responsibility for his role in all of this, for the fact that it was his debt she had gone to the North Side to try to repay and, worst of all, that prostituting herself had been his idea in the first place. She fought the urge to scream.

He had always gone out of his way to act tough—it was what had attracted her to him at such a young age. She thought wistfully of her youthful rebelliousness, of the carefree girl who failed to acknowledge that her actions might have consequences. She remembered it like it was yesterday: standing outside of the sweatshop, smoking cigarettes with the other girls, and being approached by the most handsome man she had ever seen. He was older than her, but had a boyish charm that drew her in. He took her to carnivals and vaudeville performances, and would give her sips of bourbon from a small glass bottle; she would run her fingers through his soft blond hair as his hands worked their way up her skirt. He had told her he loved her after barely a week, and she had never felt more alive. This, of course, was all before seven years of drunken fights and miscarriages and bruises that no amount of makeup could entirely cover up.

Her brother Dario had hated Nick from the start. Called him a bad seed and begged her to focus on working hard for their family. He had been saving extra money to send her to school, for the first time in her life, but that was before the accident. Though she still missed her brother terribly after all this time, it was a memory too painful to dwell on now, with so many troubles already weighing on her mind.

Instead, she continued to go over and over her conversation with Nick. He still treated her like his property, in spite of his continuous refusal to make an honest woman out of her. He had needled her into letting him deflower her, and she had relented without realizing that he would turn it around on her, using her lost virginity against her. Ever the good Catholic, he refused to marry a woman who had already been "soiled," as he put it (despite the fact that it was he who had soiled her—the only man, until recently, with whom she had ever been). The thought of his rejection used to fill her with self-loathing; now, it served as ammunition for the revenge she so desperately craved.

She glanced back at Richard, still a few paces behind her, and realized that they had been walking for hours and he had yet approach her. She appreciated his respect for her privacy, and his willingness to give her as much time as she needed, however she needed it. How was it possible that such a wonderful man had lost the woman he loved? Julia must have been crazy to let him go.

And yet…Luciana knew enough about female intuition to know that there must be more to it than what Richard had chosen to divulge. Perhaps there was some truth to Nick's accusations, the rumors that he was some sort of monster ducking town after a murderous rampage. Why else would Capone hire him, other than to do what he did best? She realized with horror that she may have been playing into his hands this whole time, falling for a façade of selflessness while he whittled her guard down in preparation for—for what? For killing her, or for turning her over to Capone? This new image of him stood at odds with the man she had gotten so close to over the last four days, and as much as she could believe the stories, she could just as easily find them to be absolutely ludicrous.

The sky continued to darken, and she knew that the only way to know the truth was to ask. Surely, Richard would tell her the truth. He of all people would never lie to her.

* * *

Richard couldn't be certain how long they had been walking, though it felt like several hours. He enjoyed walking, and didn't mind ambling around Chicago this way, reacquainting himself with the city he had so briefly called home. And he didn't mind giving Lucia her space, watching from two paces behind her as she traversed the city streets, lost in her own thoughts.

He wondered what Nick had told her, but not enough to ask just yet. The man had given the distinct impression that he was not to be trusted, though that was true of most gangsters (and a large part of why Richard detested socializing with them). Then again, it also appeared to be true of most people, in general, and Richard wondered guiltily what secrets, if any, Lucia might be keeping from him.

From what the little girl in the hallway had said, Richard was sure Nick had been back to the apartment in Lucia's absence, and with guests to boot. Which meant that he had known Lucia wouldn't find him there—the look of surprise on his face when they had walked through the door had attested to that—and must have been aware that she had been staying elsewhere. But she had told him, in one of a long line of intimate conversations over the past several days, that she had few friends and nowhere else to go. Where else could Nick have expected her to be, if not with him?

Nick had to have had a bigger role than he let on. There was no logical reason for Capone to be so concerned about this particular girl; no, Nick had to have been involved. Richard's mind raced with possibilities, but the most plausible involved Nick having a stake in Lucia's future as a prostitute. Though the idea of her selling her body did not bother him—he had spent enough time in whorehouses to know that the girls were far from the harlots they were thought by polite society to be—it sickened him that this lovely, innocent girl might be forced into such a life purely for another man's gain.

He had to get her out of Nick's reach. It occurred to him that taking such an action would only cause more trouble than it was worth, but what did that matter when her well being was on the line? His love for her was not as all-encompassing as it had been for Julia, but he loved her all the same and wanted the best for her. So what if he had been hired to do a job for Capone? Capone was a sick bastard, and didn't scare Richard in the slightest.

Suddenly, Lucia stopped midway across a stone bridge, the Chicago River flowing steadily beneath their feet. A light rain had begun to fall, and he worried dully that his tin mask might rust if they did not take shelter soon.

"I need to ask you something," she began, "and I need you to answer honestly. I just need one person in my life to be honest with me."

"You. Can trust me."

"Can I?" She turned to him, raindrops beading in her hair.

He took a careful step towards her, bringing his hand gently to her cheek. "Of course."

"Then tell me," she said, pulling his hand from her face and holding it intently in her own as she looked him dead in the eye. "Was it true, what Nick said? About you being a…a hitman?"

He looked down, unsure of how best to phrase his answer.

"Look at me and tell me the truth."

He lifted his gaze to meet hers. "I do. What I have to do."

"Should I take that as a yes?"

Wracked with guilt, he dropped her hand and turned towards the water, watching as it bisected the city with its powerful, constant flow. He could feel Lucia at his side, leaning against the carved railing and staring down at the same water, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her. He had enjoyed playing her knight in shining armor, but worried that the truth might tarnish his armor in her estimation. It was this fear that had forced him to renounce his love for Julia, and his chance at a happy life.

"When you came out here," she began, slowly and deliberately, "what did you think Capone had hired you to do?"

"I thought he. Needed me. To kill someone."

"Is that something you do often?"

A long pause. "Yes."

The rain fell heavy and thick around them, glowing jewel-like beneath the streetlights. She had placed her hand on the railing, and he longed to take it in his own and tell her whatever she needed to hear in order to draw them back to the bliss of that morning, before a river of truths had come between them. He hated himself for keeping this part of himself from her, but not enough to abandon it completely—the stonehearted killer was as much a part of him as the gentle farm boy, and there was a strong possibility that the two would never fully diverge. More than anything, he hated that he'd let himself fall for her in the first place, when he had known from the start that love was an unattainable dream for the likes of him.

"Richard," she said finally, "I think I need to be alone for a while."

It was all he could do to watch her walk away into the mounting twilight, and to stop himself from following.


	5. Chapter 5

The rain had lifted by nightfall. Richard had waited out the summer storm in a cafe, pushing food around on his plate in a well-practiced effort to blend in. Images of Lucia filled his mind—her smile, her smell, her taste, her touch—and the plan formed itself in his mind with increasing clarity as the evening wore on. He had to save her, no matter what it meant for him.

It was this understanding that brought him to the Garden of Eden. He was far from certain that he would find her there, but as he entered the bustling hall, brassy jazz filling his ears, he could feel her presence in his bones. He made his way to the far end of the bar and took a seat, ensuring he had a clear view of the dance floor and the door. He ordered a bourbon and a straw and settled himself into his post, sipping his drink and dabbing the corner of his mouth with his handkerchief while his eye stayed trained on the floor.

Like the red sea, the crowds parted, and there was Lucia. She wore the same dress she'd worn the night they met, her hair tucked loosely behind her head. He realized his jaw had slackened at the sight of her, and wondered if she had spotted him. If she had, she did not let on; she continued to dance, her chin lifted defiantly, feigning happiness though he could see the sorrow in her eyes from across the room.

After several songs, a few more bourbons, and innumerable customers holding Lucia in their arms, Richard began to let his guard down. There had been no sign of Nick or Capone; perhaps the threats had been empty, after all. As the crowd dissipated, Richard felt uncomfortably conspicuous. It was a feeling all too familiar—that of people willing themselves not to stare—and he knew he was a fool to be sitting here, but stayed put all the same. He couldn't help loving her, and those he loved were stuck with his protection as long as they needed it.

She was standing against the wall now, a rare occurrence for such a sure-footed partner, her forced smile long since gone from her face. Suddenly Richard was overtaken by the urge to perform some sort of grand romantic gesture, but his shyness gave him pause. She hadn't asked him to be here tonight—had, in fact, specifically asked to be left alone—but the night was waning and she looked so lovely, cheeks flushed and sweat glistening on her brow. He tossed back what remained of his drink and made his way to her.

Her eyes lit up when he reached her, but she did not smile. The music shifted into a slow, dreamy melody.

"I don't. Have a dime."

Now she smiled. "I forgive you." She took his hand and led him to the floor.

His self-consciousness melted away with her in his arms. She truly was a wonderful dancer, light as air on her tiny feet. He yearned to speak, to tell her the truth about himself and assure her that he had only her best interests at heart, but she rested her cheek against his chest and he knew better than to spoil the magic of the moment with words. He planted a tender kiss on the top of her head and held her close.

"What the fuck is this?" A hand reached between them and grabbed Richard by the lapel, yanking him from Lucia's grasp.

"Nick, what are you—"

"That's my girl, you son of a bitch!" Nick threw a punch that landed squarely on Richard's unscarred right cheek, sending him reeling backwards. He steadied himself, a searing pain in his jaw from where Nick's fist had made contact. The band had paused their playing, joining the hushed crowd to watch the action unfold.

"She's nobody's property," he growled.

"Fuck you, Frankenstein! I'm not letting my girl dance with a freak like you."

Lucia screamed as Nick wound his fist to throw another punch, but Richard caught it in midair. The muzzle of his Colt was pressed against Nick's forehead before he'd even released the man's hand.

"Oh God," Nick whimpered, "please don't shoot!"

Richard's mouth contorted into an angry bull's sneer. "Tell her. The truth."

"Put the gun down!"

"Tell her what happened. Between you. And Capone."

"Christ, please—" Tears streamed down Nick's face.

The assassin gripped his victim's lapel in his free fist, holding the sniveling fool in place.

"Tell her," he snarled. "Or I'll kill you."

Nick's eyes flashed to Lucia, who stood beside them with her hand to her mouth and eyes jetting back and forth between the two. Richard stood stock-still, his right arm straight and his hand free of tremors as always around his pistol. He was a study in calm and control, though his eye still bulged with rage.

"All right," Nick cried, "It was me, all right? I promised Capone I'd get him a new girl if he gave me some money upfront, but Lulu wouldn't do it. So I told her I was in trouble and got Capone in on it. I didn't know she'd go to O'Banion's turf! I didn't mean for things to get so crazy!"

Richard didn't move, though his finger quivered against the trigger. Nick sobbed before him, shaking uncontrollably. The crowd waited with baited breath for one of them to make a move.

"Richard," Lucia said quietly, "put the gun down."

He looked at her calm poker face, then lowered his gun. Nick sank to his knees.

"Baby," Nick blubbered, "you saved my life!"

"I didn't do it to save you." She stared down at him, her not a trace of doubt in her face. "I want you to get up and walk out of here. I don't care where you go, but I never want to see you again."

"Lulu—"

"You're free to stay here, of course, but if I ever do see you again—I will kill you myself."

Nick searched her face for some sign of compassion, but her cool expression stood fast. He searched the room wildly for an ally, but they all avoided his eyes. Finally, he rose on unsteady legs and made his way to the exit, knocking Richard's shoulder with his own as he broke through the crowd.

For a moment, the room was completely still. Richard stared at Lucia, her face impossible to read as she stared at the spot where Nick had knelt mere moments before. She lifted her gaze to meet his, and his heart swelled with affection for her. Clearly, she felt it too—she rushed to him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him as if they were the only two people in the world. The crowd erupted in applause around him, like they had so many months ago at the Legion Hall. But this time, he did not stand frozen in shock; this time, held her, shielding her against the world, and kissed her back.

* * *

"Are you ready to tell me the truth?" They were seated face to face on the hotel bed, Luciana in the thin robe and Richard in his undershirt and trousers, suspenders hanging loose at his sides and mask lying safely on the nightstand. He had held her as they'd left the club, held her in the car ride over, held her in the elevator; he had only let her go when she insisted on changing her clothes, but the look of adoration he bestowed on her now made her certain he would draw her back to him at the first chance he got.

Luciana wasn't certain she even wanted to know the answer to her query, but she knew she couldn't feel entirely comfortable with him until he was completely honest with her. Whatever his response, she decided, she would accept him. His devotion would be clear in the mere act of truthfulness, whatever that truthfulness entailed. Besides, his abilities had been thrown into stark relief back in the Garden of Eden, in the handling of that gun he'd held to Nick's head with such serene self-assurance.

"I am. A hitman," he said slowly. "I'm paid to kill."

Strangely, she was not alarmed by his answer in the slightest. Perhaps she had always suspected that this was his true identity—why else would Capone have associated with a man such as him? "Can I ask," she said softly, "how many?"

"During the war. Or after?"

"Total."

"85." He said this without hesitation, as if the number had long been rehearsed in his mind. She thought of Dario, and understood the mysterious expression on his face completely.

"I need to tell you something."

His face reflected his surprise. "You can tell me. Anything."

She lay back against the mountain of pillows, staring at the ceiling. She had never acknowledged the truth to anyone but herself; even Nick, who lorded it over her like his ace in the hole, had never heard her speak of the event. But she knew that Richard would withhold judgment, and a part of her was desperate to divulge the truth.

"My brother, Dario—he didn't die from consumption." She took a deep breath, her heart racing. "I...killed him." The tears flowed with surprising intensity, her body wracked with shuddering sobs. Richard pulled her to him, wrapping his strong arms around her as she released seven years' pent-up guilt.

"How. Did it happen?"

He lay back to accommodate her settling into him, her head and hand securely on his chest. "It was my first time," she began, drawing back her tears as memories of that day—the way the light filtered in through the tattered curtains, and the smell of grease and tobacco on Nick's skin—flooded to the forefront of her mind. "My first time with Nick—well, with anyone. He'd been begging more for weeks. I was so naive, I thought he wouldn't marry me if I didn't."

Richard's throat clicked as his muscles tensed; she could feel his anger through his skin.

"Dario was supposed to be working a double that day, but he came home early—who remembers why? He walked in and saw us, and I've never seen him so mad. He started yelling in Italian, and he yanked Nick off of me and just started pummeling like his life depended on it. Damn near killed him." She paused, running over the memory in her head, wondering what might have been had Dario succeeded. "I was so scared. I just wanted to make it stop. Nick's gun was right there."

"Did you mean. To shoot him?"

"I don't know. No, I couldn't have. I loved my brother, more than anything in the world. But he was gonna kill him, and—" She choked back a sob, unable to continue. Richard merely held her closer.

"What happened after?" he said, in as close to a whisper as his throat could manage.

She shrugged. "I cried for days. Weeks. I hated Nick, but...well, he knew, and I didn't want anyone else to." She took a deep breath, staring off into space. "And then, after a while, I didn't hate him so much. And then I didn't hate him at all. But I never forgot; I just never let myself remember."

He kissed the top of her head, urging the pain away with the tenderness of his touch. Neither spoke for several minutes, letting her words hang in the air like the scent of wild strawberries in the summertime.

"Did I tell you," Richard began, quietly, "about the first men. I killed?"

She looked up at him and shook her head.

"Two vandals. Were robbing all. The farms. In the area."

She looked up at him, his eye focused hard on the recollection.

"Broke my father's leg. Then, they came back. And tried to hurt. My sister." He winced. "I put a bullet. Through each of. Their eyes. I had only been shooting. For a few weeks."

"How old were you?"

"I was ten."

_Ten_. Just a child and already doing what needed to be done to protect his family. Luciana felt a surge of admiration for this quiet but powerful hero in whose arms she felt so safe and secure. She reached up to his face and pulled him down until their lips met, building quickly in intensity as the years of heartache between them burst forth into a wild passion that overtook them both. Hands groping madly, ripping clothing away to expose skin flecked with goosebumps. They rolled onto their sides, and suddenly his erection filled her, the force of his thrusts varying from soft to hard and back again, drawing her ecstasy from her deepest depths until it came plunging forth in a scream of unbridled joy, twisting every inch of her being into a knot of pleasure so all-encompassing that it made her tremble. Her screams only made him thrust harder, mining ever deeper until she her body went numb from the power of her climax. Only then did he release himself inside of her, holding her lips with his as they lay quivering in each other's arms.

"Come with me," he breathed into her ear.

"Where?"

"To. Atlantic City."

"But my whole life is here."

"You need. A change." His gaze was fixed on her, his eye filled with sincerity. "Please. Come with me."

She was quiet for several moments before whispering, "All right."

* * *

He had waited until she'd drifted off into a peaceful slumber before he dressed and slipped out of the hotel. It was that part of the night closer to sunrise than sunset, when the darkness is eerily absolute in the absence of the bustling urban throngs. Even the bakeries had yet to begin pumping floury steam into muggy night the air. Chicago was bathed in the calm of restfulness.

The walk to the Four Deuces took little time at all. He couldn't be sure how he knew to go back to the familiar house, but he had followed the intuition that had served him so well thus far and found his feet falling on recognizable pavement as he approached the building in which the direction of his life had been determined.

He ducked into the shadows, with a clear view of the front steps, and thought about Jimmy. Richard had been shocked to find that his new friend called such a place home; he hadn't said a thing at the time, but it had been his first time in a whorehouse, and he had been a jumble of nerves. His thoughts turned to Odette, and her "ticker-tape parade" that had proven more thrilling than any parade he could have imagined. He had loved her from that moment on, but then again had a habit of falling in love with anyone who could see past the mask, if only for a moment. He had trained himself, in the years since, to accept that she had only been doing her job, but a part of him still held a candle for the beautiful brunette who had made him more of a man than the war ever had.

Richard checked his watch; it was nearly 3:00, and the events at the Garden of Eden seemed a world away. Yet he had far from moved on. He placed his hand inside his coat, grasping the Colt firmly. He had been itching all night to pull the trigger.

The door flew open and a drunkard staggered out, nearly tumbling down the stairs in his stupor. Though his fedora threw his face in shadow, it was unmistakably the right man.

As the drunk approached Richard's alcove, the masked man stepped out from the shadows and blocked his path, holding the Colt high, straight, and true.

"This is. For Lucia."

The gunshot pierced the night air, but not a soul emerged from the building to see Richard walking calmly from the scene, Niccolo Caro's body crumpled on the pavement behind him.


	6. Epilogue

She had awoken at the sound of the door, but laid still, her eyes shut in the lingering traces of sleep. She could feel his weight on the bed as he leaned in close, whispering in her ear, "You're safe now." Somehow, she knew exactly what he meant.

It was nearly an hour before she felt his breathing slow and his body settle into peaceful stillness. She opened her eyes, examining the undamaged half of his face while the other remained buried in his pillow. His high cheekbones and graceful jaw begged to be covered in kisses, and she dutifully obeyed, careful not to wake him. He truly was her knight in shining armor, her hero in a world with few to offer a girl like her. And she loved him, more than she had ever loved Nick. She loved his light as well as his dark, loved the comfort waiting in his embrace and the thrill that had coursed through her veins at the sight of standing before her, brave and statuesque, clutching a gun to Nick's head. It was the latter that worried her, no matter how enticing it may have been.

She remembered their first day together, when he had told her of his beloved sister, Emma. The way he told it, they were still close, but something in the wistful quality his voice took on when speaking of her gave Lucia the distinct impression that there was more to the story than Richard let on. Though she had grown so close to him in recent days, so much of his life was still shrouded in mystery. She thought of Julia, and understood what had driven them apart: it had been Richard, and his insistence that he was somehow separate from the rest of the world, unable to accept the love that he deserved because of some misguided sense of guilt. She could feel it in the intensity with which he made love to her, the immediacy of his movements and the selfless way in which he attended to her needs first while only reluctantly accepting her attention to his in return. He was begging her to love him, but unable to accept that she did.

He had so much growth ahead of him. They both did, but a part of her knew that their paths were leading them in different directions. She was finally free of Nick's control, and now needed to find her own way in life, whereas Richard had been independent for far too long and desperately needed someone to come home to. She wished that could be her, but now was not the time.

Quietly as she could manage, she rose from the bed and took a seat at the small desk. She turned on the lamp with a jolt of fear that it might wake him; he did not move a muscle. She carefully pulled open the desk drawer and retrieved a sheet of stationery, on which she began to write.

* * *

Morning came, as it is wont to, all too soon. Richard enjoyed the buttery feel of his muscles, for once unburdened by the tension they were normally forced to hold. He opened his eyes, hoping to reach out to Lucia, perhaps kiss her awake. But her place in the bed was empty.

He sat up and looked around the room. All was still, with no sign of her. Her clothes—the ones she'd brought and those he had purchased for her—were nowhere to be found. It was almost as if she had never been there in the first place.

Something in the corner of his eye caught his attention; a piece of paper lay folded on her pillow. He pulled it slowly towards him, less than eager to read its contents but knowing that he must.

"_My dearest Richard,_

_Words cannot express the love I have for you, but nevertheless I'll try. You saved me from a life I didn't know I did not deserve, and for that I can never thank you enough. But now is not our time. I've decided to go to California, on my own. Maybe I'll become the next Garbo, or maybe I'll just find a little bungalow on the beach and try to figure out who Luciana Morici really is. I feel like my whole life is ahead of me, and I know that is because of you._

_I know you believe that you cannot be both a killer and a savior, but I am telling you that you can, and that you must. It may sound crazy, but your skill is one that you should not run from. You are still the sweet, wonderful man that you say you left behind before the war, but you are also a soldier, and a good one at that. I hope you can find a way to accept who you are, and to find peace within yourself._

_You deserve more love than you realize, my darling. Promise me that you will let it into your heart. I do not know the circumstances behind your parting with Julia, but I can only assume that she loves you as much as I do. If she does not, then she does not deserve you, but just promise me that you'll try. _

_Please know that I will always cherish the memory of our time together. I have never felt more alive than when I was in your arms, and I will remember you fondly all the days of my life._

_With all of my love,_

_Your _

_Lucia_

_PS: Perhaps it is time to pay Emma a visit—you didn't think I really believed that you two are still close, did you?"_

He read the note twice, his eye clouded with tears. He did not blame her for departing without him; on the contrary, he admired her willingness to take such a leap of faith, all on her own. California would look good on her.

As he packed his belongings and prepared to leave the hotel for the last time, he thought about Capone and how angry he would doubtless be at the way in which the events of the past week had panned out. He had assumed Richard would deliver him a new girl, and Richard had stolen from him both the girl and one of his lackeys, instead. But Capone did not strike fear into Richard's heart, volatile though he had proven himself to be. Whatever the outcome of his actions, Richard was ready to face them head-on, with the fearlessness of a soldier heading into battle and the serenity of the quiet Wisconsin farm boy deep within.

He considered the road ahead. One led back to Atlantic City, where Nucky would be waiting (no doubt aware of the mess Richard had made), and where Julia and Tommy were safely tucked away. The other led to a place he hadn't considered revisiting in years, but perhaps Lucia was right. It was time for him to accept himself, for better or for worse. He just hoped that he was up to the challenge.


End file.
